


the wine we fought for

by gogollescent



Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 16:12:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17025900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogollescent/pseuds/gogollescent
Summary: In the event, it didn’t need an autopsy to know that Greenhill hadn’t killed himself. Not many people aimed for the forehead, in his circumstances. Even fewer got off the shot from a distance of ten yards.





	the wine we fought for

In the event, it didn’t need an autopsy to know that Greenhill hadn’t killed himself. Not many people aimed for the forehead, in his circumstances. Even fewer got off the shot from a distance of ten yards.

There was no tracking down the weapon, after their legitimate elected government completed the thorough scuffing-over of persons and premises that the NSMC had begun, but Schonkopf was happy with his theory of the crime. Arthur Lynch had motive, means, and a bad disposition. The wonder was that he’d waited so long to kick down his own house of cards. But his body didn’t turn up. It left a question of what, if anything, to tell Yang and Lieutenant Greenhill.

Yang would take him at his word and perhaps be relieved. He had a depressive’s horror of suicide, and a mysteriously commonsense approach to the sins of men who hated him. Lieutenant Greenhill, too, might be comforted, especially if he omitted to say that Lynch had done Greenhill’s job for him. What then tied Walter von Schonkopf’s tongue?

Petty vanity; and nothing. He was going to tell them. Still—he’d ordered the autopsy to satisfy his curiosity, and both Lieutenant Greenhill and Yang would guess as much. He preferred to do favors that won melting gratitude, if he had to do favors. Failing that, he liked to be free to give suggestions.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted Yang to feel _less_ responsible for the fate of friends and loved ones. Yang wasn’t shy about taking on blame, but he had a neat way of swallowing the tie between action and consequence: never denying the consequences, he denied that he could act. Things became “his fault” without his lifting a finger to cause them. The magician at work.

At least Lieutenant Greenhill could be trusted to listen without covering one ear. He found her alone in Yang’s office, randomizing his passwords, and her hands never stopped, though she lifted her head when he described Lynch’s probable fate.

“Well, we don’t know that, do we?” she said simply. “He might have done it as a favor to my father. Or at the council’s instigation, if they thought a dead leader was more protection than one who surrendered.” A tear slipped down the side of her nose, but she kept command of her voice with only a deep inhale, and must have been thinking of what to say almost from the moment he began to speak. “Still, if it’s true… Why would they lie?” And then, “I see. They didn’t want to publicize the Empire’s role in the coup.”

She had those honey eyes, warm as anything aboard the station; but that wasn’t too warm. Even the “sun” in daylight zones never outdid a November morning. Air refrigerated to hell and back for fear of starting fires—only the cabbages in glass coffins stayed cozy. Iserlohn had impressed him from the first as a fortress without a sky, which boasted depths rather than walls, and more ledges than windows: retaking the city level by level created the irresistible dream that, arranged in a single layer, it would have spread on forever, with the alloy a sea overhead. And the green paint at HQ gave her skin a sick cast, it tarnished the bronze hair, although he couldn’t say decline didn’t become her.

Now her light eyes padded over his face, storing an expression he knew nothing about until his jaw clicked shut. As for him, he hoped the paint lent him a vernal bloom.

She continued: “I suppose Trunicht doesn’t want that either, since he approved the prisoner exchange. I’m surprised he thinks we’ll remember.”

“I don’t think our beloved chairperson climbed to his seat by a shortage of caution,” he observed, cautiously. “It’s exactly because he expects to be watched that he’s able to blind quite a few. It’s not that he counts on his victims to walk around with eyes shut…”

“Why would my father take Lynch in?” said Greenhill, to herself.

Oh? Because unlike Trunicht, Schonkopf could have told her, your father had to work to see both sides of everything. When there weren’t sides, he cut up truth to make some. He liked Yang, but he didn’t dislike Lynch—he disliked Lynch, but he felt guilty for loathing someone everyone despised. Yes, and in the end Lynch and Yang sang the same song, that something was wrong, wrong in the FPA; and Dwight Greenhill could see that. _Seeing both sides_ meant your own side in everything, the Madonna on burnt toast, whatever the guy opposite might have bitten his tongue not to add. “Are you asking me? I didn’t know him,” Schonkopf said. “Not to speak to. I’d like to hear your insights, though.”

“He was always generous.” Her attention had shifted from Schonkopf to nothing. “But I wonder if he really understood what it was like for my mother, on El Facil. Perhaps if I had told him more, he would have known to avoid—but it seemed much better to forget it. Admiral Yang saved us. That was what I wanted to remember.”

She said it with a fierceness which should have seemed defensive, not to say perverse. But having finished the speech she sighed. He in turn had wondered if her devotion to Yang would survive—it took a strong stomach to love someone who had been a bystander to the death of your last living family. Lieutenant Greenhill had an iron stomach. She was smiling, a little, brows drawn tight together, accusing herself and amused at herself, and as if always carrying no more than she could bear. What did she mean, “better to forget it”? The Empire, they discovered, upon taking Iserlohn, kept just partial maps of the fortress, to disappoint temptation. The map they used now was Frederica’s. What did she think she could forget?

For himself, he knew what he cared for when it occupied his memory, and remained after countless bludgeonings. It was an effective test which many failed. How had Miss Greenhill learned she was in love?

She pointed at his shoulder, not quite touching. “Have you mentioned this to the admiral?”

“Do you think I should?”

*

If Schonkopf had one complaint to make with respect to his commanding officer—then history would be rewritten. As it was, among his several complaints was that Yang had no gift for transparency. There was a time and place to be open with others: for example, in matters of the heart. There was a time and place to clam up and smile: for example, in a kid-gloves tribunal. If the second dream was impossible, Yang might have suffered himself to be squeezed for his interest in women as easily as for his thoughts on politicians—and gone down in history as a model of candor, though hardly as a man with a modern life expectancy.

Nevertheless, the inquiry had put some life into Yang. He blushed more when talking to his adjunct, although that might have been the cold he came down with, 24 hours after setting foot on the station. He talked faster, but not in the hectic way that marked his fluent tirades against defeated foes. He seemed rather to be working through some problem in himself: like a man ready to move house, he looked with a discerning eye for what to sell and what to keep. His close brush with political imprisonment must have given him some hope.

A hope commandingly dashed when Lohengramm declared war. But Yang stayed—on alert, by his standards. As slothful and stubborn as ever; but when Schonkopf followed him back to his office after Lohengramm’s announcement, he didn’t object.

“That brandy was good, but I don’t have any more,” Yang warned as they entered.

“Don’t worry. I have something to say to you, but it doesn’t concern the young Kaiser.” Pleased with this opening sally, he perched himself—well, roosted—on the corner of Yang’s desk.

Yang looked irritated that Schonkopf had taken his usual seat. He dropped into the chair. “What is it?”

“Admiral Greenhill didn’t kill himself.” He handed Yang a file with pictures of the autopsy, attached to Machungo’s report and the followup from a paid investigator on Heinessen. Yang didn’t open it. “I thought you might like to know.“

“Yes,” said Yang, with a bare trace of irony. “Thank you.” He dipped his thumb into the file, then, somewhat to Schonkopf’s surprise, slid out the report, turned to the end, and read aloud the conclusions. “So. Witnesses confirm Lynch’s presence on the Council—and, of course, Lynch would have heard Baghdash’s announcement.” He set down the file.

“Would you have acted differently, had you known?”

“I’m not sure,” said Yang. “I wish we hadn’t finished the brandy. At the moment, I’m not thinking too clearly.” The wording was ambiguous. Going by his tone, Yang wanted more alcohol in his system, not less. “Probably not. My priority was the safety of the people of Heinessen. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“This report came on the same ship that carried the summons. There didn’t seem to be a good time to mention it. And you didn’t take me with you,” Schonkopf observed.

“I don’t know why you want to change your career path to ‘babysitter,’” Yang said. “Wasn’t holding the fort here fun?”

“It wasn’t bad. But I could have had fun on Heinessen.”

“Heinessen wasn’t ready for your brand of fun,” Yang muttered. “What is it you think you could have done with the likes of Captain Veigh? Taken an axe to red tape?”

“Sure,” Schonkopf said. “Why not? What were _they_ going to do—arrest you?”

“Let me go and send the PKC to scare me back into the arms of their security detail,” Yang suggested.

“Oh, wouldn’t I love to meet ten of those,” said Schonkopf. “Do you think Trunicht budgets much for the armor?”

“It’s not waterproof,” said Yang inscrutably. He pushed the file toward Schonkopf. “Why are you telling me now?”

“Are you not glad to know?”

“Knowledge for knowledge’s sake?” Yang didn’t say it with sarcasm, didn’t say it disbelievingly, didn’t say it as a way to shut Schonkopf up. He said it like a question, and pulled his hat down over his eyes. When he next spoke, it sounded rehearsed; so Schonkopf attended respectfully, as he would have at a play.

“What did Admiral Greenhill say, when he decided to send out the 11th Fleet? ‘My daughter is unimportant to me?’ But what he meant was, ‘My daughter is safe.’ I suppose I felt the same. That whatever happened, the man I respected would be safe, even as I planned to push him to despair. After the riot at the stadium, I thought the most important thing was to ensure that no more civilians were killed. I wonder what would have happened if I had saved Baghdash for the aftermath, when independent news services were up and running? Everyone saw the announcement. Everyone knew it was a tactic, too.” He slid his hat off his head and crumpled it to his chest—not to his heart, but higher, almost at the base of his throat, as though something was lodged there and he would force it out. “But no one was killed, apart from my fellow soldiers. I can’t say whether people’s lives are always more important than keeping the truth undirtied. In the long run, it was the thing I felt I could control.”

“I’m sure the admiral would have agreed with you.”

Yang set his hat on the desk and smoothed it out. “You’ve told Lieutenant Greenhill?”

“I have.”

“That’s good. I’m glad you didn’t wait as long where it counted.”

“You might consider speaking to her about it.”

“In what capacity? As her commanding officer?”

Schonkopf inspected the ceiling. “As a friend?”

Yang rested his chin on his hand—he had planted his elbow on the hat—and looked at Schonkopf dreamily over his curled knuckles. “Are you a masochist, Schonkopf?” he said.

“Who, me?”

“Well, take this. I can’t imagine you’d enjoy seeing me paired off. It would offend your sense of justice—and rightly so. How can a man like me go courting?” With his free hand he drew a line across his neck. For the guillotine? “As for your other demands… If I seized control of the government, your life would become very boring. Subduing the populace, night raids—for a man of your talents, it’s a snore. We’d never go to war again. And yet you go on asking me to take up the mantle of power.”

“You’ve confused me with yourself,” Schonkopf said, after a pause. “A man so afraid of being bored, he closes his eyes to everything that might disappoint him.”

Yang blinked. But Schonkopf had warmed to his subject. “Now, me—though it might involve some personal sacrifice, I would find matters to interest me in your dictatorship. And if you were in love… ‘Yang Wen-li, laid low by passion!’ I admit, you’re not a natural. Is there any part you’re a natural for? But as we’ve discussed—you’re not a bad student.”

He leaned forward; and for once, Yang didn’t shrink away. Emboldened, Schonkopf wiggled his fingers in Yang’s face, invoking the spirit of a fairy godmother over a pumpkin. Yang moved his head to one side and squinted. “Are you making a pass at me?”

It was natural to lower his hand. It was natural to smile pedantically, as if letting himself in on the joke.

“I can’t say I’d thought of it. But for you, Admiral, I would make an exception…”

“No, really.” Schonkopf eased his weight off the desk and raised an eyebrow, a half a beat too late. Yang was practically glowing. His eyes had popped open. Disgusted, Schonkopf understood that he was ignoring any implications: he wore the silly, brazen look he got when alone with an ideal puzzle. “I thought you were sour Frederica turned you down,” Yang stage-whispered, putting his hand flat on the desk in a covert slap of triumph. “I was too narrowminded. General, if you have a complaint—”

He paused. I should have timed it, Schonkopf thought, and folded his arms.

“How curious,” said Yang, leaning back. “I seem to have lost my head. I apologize if I said something in bad taste."

Schonkopf shook his head. His arms stayed crossed. Yang stared up at him, and stifled a yawn. When the silence had gone on another moment, he appeared to sag. “'It was a joke...' Uh, a test? This is difficult. Usually, the other person makes a move, and we’re interrupted by a firebombing,” he offered. “Well, I say usually. It’s only happened the once.”

“How would you know?” Schonkopf said, kissing him.

He felt Yang tense. The change was harsh. But, equally quickly, he relaxed, and even moved with the kiss. His hands settled on Schonkopf’s shoulders. Schonkopf felt a fleeting moment of pity for that one other person, whose life and honor the firebombing must have saved.

At no point did Yang pretend to push him away. That would have been too interfering. His hands simply hung there, warm. Schonkopf wasn’t above taking advantage.

“—all righ’,” Yang said around his tongue. “All right!” He craned his neck back like a tortoise and licked his lips, cross-eyed. Though he wasn’t flushed, Schonkopf couldn’t help but notice. He looked as cool as if he had just rolled out of the vegetable drawer. Just for fun, Schonkopf put a hand up his jacket—at which Yang, in a lateral move, sat up straight. “Let’s take stock. Really?” as Schonkopf tapped his waistband. “Did you mean to do this here?”

“You brought it up.”

“I feel like I’ve just been dared into daring you to do whatever you wanted,” Yang muttered. “I’m a family man, you know. I recognize these low tricks.”

“Please don’t mention Julian. Where else should we take this? Is there somewhere we can go where it won’t be a breach of military ordinance? I know how you care for such things.”

“I can’t mention parenthood, and you cite military ordinance?” There was something almost wrong with the lightness in Yang’s voice, his hands, his smile: he plucked the front of Schonkopf’s jacket like he had never met a uniform before. Damn Yang anyway; there was certainly something wrong with a man who could make an escape of anything, even harmless escape. In the presence of an artist like that, it was impossible to forget how they were trapped.

Not that Schonkopf minded. Better a foxhole in space than the planet of Heinessen, the worlds of the Empire, the peaceful and uninhabited islands elsewhere in this galaxy. Better this cramped office than anywhere on Iserlohn. After all, Yang held the key. _He_ only came to rattle at the gate.

He stepped back, pretending to relent. “Speaking of Julian, then—you’d rather risk it in your quarters?”

“That’s depressing. Is this really the best place?” It should have been funny, but Yang said it flatly, and shrugged and bent to pick up something that had fallen out of Schonkopf’s pocket. “Oh, you have condoms. That’s embarrassing.” He unwrapped it, seemingly to check the color.

There was a sincerity to Yang’s discomfort that his courage never owned. He was no doubt uncomfortable with this use of government property. But he also held himself with indifferent contempt, disrespectful of his discomfort; his feet flat on the floor, pressed together, and one hand raised to unbutton his jacket. When he straightened, his face shone out with the same blank frustration as when he talked about Admiral Greenhill: knowing the truth, having no one to tell. People did get lonely. If Yang ever gave in—if at the age of 105 he toppled Job Trunicht, took the reins of power, or gave an interview in a magazine—it would be because of that look, already fading. As such, it was suitable to lock the door.

Later, he found himself with his cheek against Yang’s thigh, while Yang petted his crown surreptitiously. Yang was a worthless receiver: he tutted, went silent, and said, “Oh? Like that?” But then, he had been put on the spot. It probably wasn’t personal. It might have made a lesser man feel like a donkey at the horse doctor’s. At last Yang gave a shattered sigh, and raked his hands loosely down Schonkopf’s nape, which was almost a warning; and when Schonkopf stayed put he jerked and fell back panting. Schonkopf eased off the condom and dropped it in the waste basket, and then, feeling prosey, mouthed again at the skin of Yang’s thigh, just to make a point. Yang didn’t seem to mind that: twitching and sensitive, he squeaked to the touch, but wouldn’t move. He had his foot pressed half against Schonkopf’s dick, in the slackest concession imaginable, and Schonkopf considered picking up his shoe and fucking that instead.

He was who he was. He knuckled his way off of his sore knees, bumped his head on the desk, and pulled Yang up to make room for himself, Yang in lap. There was a savorable exchange of kisses, longer than what he had led with. At the time it had seemed important to let Yang know he was in earnest: willing to do anything, short of recanting, and to crawl under a desk with two filing cabinets. Yang, half-clothed, tried to cover his ass—it _was_ cold—so Schonkopf helped him. It was too much work to keep his hands off Yang, however much he wanted the man to shiver. But Yang shivered anyway, and dove into his neck.

*

Heinessenopolis was warmer than he remembered. Iserlohn made it easy to lose track of the turning of the year.

Schonkopf had an interest in Julian’s adventures on Phezzan. But Yang indicated a selfish wish to monopolize his ward, so Schonkopf cornered Lieutenant _Commander_ Greenhill, whose manner had an odd half-mad excitement clinging to it. She grew playful around Julian, and needed time to settle.

“Since we can’t hear it from the star of the hour,” he said, “let’s grill Machungo. What do you say?”

She brightened, if possible. “Certainly. The sergeant deserves all our thanks.”

Machungo displayed mixed feelings on their invitation. On the one hand, he was flattered and said so, but he must have been looking forward to the chance to dazzle his fellow warrant officers. Too bad. “You like sushi, right? I know a place.”

The place was booked up. Heinessen fearful was Heinessen festive. It had rained a little earlier that evening, but the streets seethed, and police huddled on every corner. Instead they went to a miserably-outfitted “gastropub” next door. Fortunately, Machungo started talking almost as soon as they sat down, in a voice that carried well over the hubbub, and with enough elan to distract Schonkopf from the fact that every starter on the menu was beef. It was clear he had taken a liking to Julian—he liked Julian plenty. Until Schonkopf heard Machungo talk up Ensign Mintz, he hadn’t realized just how many shipmates Machungo treated with friendly tolerance.

It was just as well. By the sound of it, Julian hadn’t met many people his age on Phezzan, unless you counted the High Commissioner’s data security.

At a question from Lieutenant Greenhill: “Oh, the ensign can take care of himself. If only he weren’t so good at getting into scrapes! But then he invents more scrapes to get us out of them. It’s an interesting system.”

“Just like his guardian, then.”

“Is that so?” spoken with every sign of polite interest. Bodyguarding for Yang’s two biggest fans hadn’t converted Machungo.

The server set down three glasses of some colorful, layered drink—oh, it was supposed to be the flag. Charming. “From the table by the door,” she said, smiling.

“Oh? You must have an admirer. A brave admirer, to challenge the sergeant and me.”

Lieutenant Greenhill giggled behind her hand. “I don’t think so,” she said, nodding to the door.

The sender was a solidly-built young woman with a hard, sculpted face, and light hair clipped in a messy twist. After a moment’s hesitation, she stood, saluted, and sat. Schonkopf bowed in his seat, and for his trouble got a stare, so blindly intent he felt loutish for not matching the salute. The stare broke; she smiled and turned to her untouched tapas. A patriot, it would appear.

“This is very good,” Lieutenant Greenhill decided, “but too sweet for me. Do you want mine?”

“It’s a shame to waste it.”

The woman rose from her table and came over while she was waiting for her bill. “Petty Officer Mia Caudwell. I just wanted to thank you,” she said. “I was stationed on Shampool, and after the coup… It was such a relief when your men arrived.”

Lieutenant Greenhill refolded the napkin in her lap, put her elbows on the bar, and looked at Schonkopf. Schonkopf said, “Of course. It was my pleasure to liberate Shampool, a world with a proud history of… supplying Iserlohn. We depended on you on that lonely outpost.” Not true, but possibly flattering, if she somehow didn’t know they’d abandoned Iserlohn weeks before.

The woman nodded. “You know, ‘liberate’ is exactly the word. It was really terrible. I didn’t think it could be so terrible. They were on our side, after all. But it was like they all went crazy, and forgot who they were meant to be fighting.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Schonkopf said, glancing unwillingly at Lieutenant Greenhill.

The woman followed his gaze and said nothing. She smiled at Machungo and reached across the bar to shake his hand, almost knocking over one of the drinks she had paid for. She brushed off her sleeve and said, “At least an invasion is pretty clear-cut. What do you think? Will we beat the bastards?”

“Why not?” He was starting to lose patience. “We’ve done it before. And my paycheck’s still coming,” he added, and saw her smile start to set, a paleness creeping under her dull tan. But she was eager for any reassurance. She nodded, saluted, and went to pay.

Lieutenant Greenhill excused herself to the restroom.

Machungo looked stricken. “It’s terrible, isn’t it? She’s brave and clever, and they treat her as someone to be forgiven. Secret supporters or victims of the coup, it doesn’t matter, they both think she’s a fool.”

“You did good work on that autopsy,” Schonkopf said, watching the curtain Lieutenant Greenhill had disappeared through. “I don’t know if she’s mentioned it, but she appreciated it very much.”

“Yes?” Machungo said solemnly, eyes dancing. “That is, yes. She wrote a thank you note.” He frowned again. “It must be difficult. To be asked to prove that you made a choice, and to make that choice over and over, when at first it was no choice at all! But a man—”

“—can’t forsake his destiny. Hmm.”

“You took the words out of my mouth, General.” Machungo shrugged and tapped his glass. “Julian thinks highly of her. And,” leaning forward, a hand cupped to his mouth, “he mentions her in his dreams.”

Schonkopf did smile at that. “Does he say what she’s doing?”

“Overfeeding his cat, I think. Ah, but I really couldn’t say.” His communicator went off. “Oh dear, my mother knows I’m in the city. _I_ didn’t know she was in the city. She’s angry that I was on the news. Sorry, no, she’s angry she found out from TV. I should go,” he said, standing. “Please enjoy my drink, and give my apologies to Lieutenant Greenhill.” 

“Wait a minute, we haven’t gotten the tab—”

The numbers were swimming before his eyes when Lieutenant Greenhill emerged, pristine though pinkish, from the ladies’. “I hope you didn’t have too much of the beef,” she said grimly. “General? Are you all right?”

“Nope,” said Schonkopf, and dropped the pen. “Machungo abandoned us to wait on his witch mother. I,” and he bent low over the bar, gripping the edge with both hands, “am seasick.”

Lieutenant Greenhill took hold of his head by the hair and turned it until she could gaze into his eyes. “The drinks.” She smelled his glass. “No wonder they were so sweet. I only had a little, but you—”

“What did she say her name was? Caudwell?”

“She’s a real person,” Lieutenant Greenhill said, sounding troubled. “Her name was on the list of casualties. We had to be careful about identifying loyalists, but she was injured in the original uprising, she barricaded herself into a granary.”

“Stolen ID?”

“It could be.”

“I need air,” Schonkopf announced, and knocked over the bar stool. “Whoops.” He dropped some money on the counter. “Have at it.”

Outside was as balmy as a spring afternoon. Clouds covered the sky and covered themselves in the hot light of the city, and the rain from before had steamed away, leaving no trace, unless it was in the glittering freshness with which asphalt and sidewalk pavement reported every hint of gold. But it was a crisp glitter, dim gold, like light scattered on skin. He kept looking for somewhere he would feel good about puking on, and finding clean sidewalk. You would think the capital had a budget. In the time it took him to walk in a circle and not fall over, Lieutenant Greenhill had paid and caught up.

“General Schonkopf—”

“Shh,” he muttered, and put his mouth near her ear. She bore up stoically, fingers over his heart. “Can’t you hear? Company, in the alley.” The restaurant itself was at the end of a blind alley; this was more like a crack between buildings. “You’d better go back inside.“

“You’re not coming?”

“I’d like to hear what she has to say. It’s not anyone who gets the drop on Walter von Schonkopf.”

“I do, too,” Lieutenant Greenhill whispered.

“Then stay behind me.”

At the mouth of the alley, it became clear they had interrupted; she was wrestling on a cowl, and a gym bag lay open at her feet. Lieutenant Greenhill hissed. “PKC? That’s not the right kind of mask…”

“That’s interesting,” Schonkopf said, not quite under his breath. “I thought they went in packs.” The woman had realized her mistake, too late. He was already moving, and by the time she had freed her head, he was on top of her.

Maybe the mask was wrong. The stun baton felt real. He gave way with a cry. “Soldier,” she said. “Will we beat the bastards?”

He tried to remember Lieutenant Greenhill’s line to the press. “I can’t answer questions about classified military information.”

“Is your death classified military information?”

Schonkopf put himself between her and Lieutenant Greenhill, ducked the next strike, and lunged. He overbalanced badly. Still, it wasn’t much of a fight: it was too easy for them to evade each other. The problem wasn’t her, but whatever she'd spiked his drink with, which made it feel as though his head was getting bigger. They circled twice, and he noticed something strange. Lieutenant Greenhill on her knees, rummaging through Caudwell’s gym bag. Then Caudwell rushed him. To his own surprise, he felt awful, as though the frantic blows were redoubled by something inside him—giants' fists pummeling through the wall between him and the world. He wondered what Greenhill was doing with the bag. Then he didn’t have to wonder, because Caudwell was convulsing against him, in his arms, and Lieutenant Greenhill held a short-range taser in one hand.

“What kind of woman barricades herself in a granary?” she said. “I thought she must have brought a backup.” He could breathe again, which was handy. Together they got Caudwell to the ground, and Schonkopf pinned her arms behind her head. Caudwell blinked and snarled up at him.

The cowl wasn't becoming. “You’re not PKC. Why the outfit?”

“Why do you care?”

Schonkopf considered. His head was pounding. “I don’t. I was making conversation. I’d care to hear why you attacked me, though.”

“You son of a bitch, you killed my brother,” she said, laughing. “Liberator. And raped how many women?”

“On Shampool? I don’t recall any complaints. Who’s your brother?”

“ _Captain Aaron Caudwell_ —”

“Sorry. I’m sure he put up a brave fight.”

“13th Fleet scum. You fucked yourself, you murdering fucker. _Ro-sen Ri-tter_ —you couldn’t stay in the Empire to die? You had to come here and kill us all and die? Admiral Yang’s prize mutt. My brother should have won. None of this would have happened.”

“I see.”

Lieutenant Greenhill had been on the line with the police; now she came back, picking her way over the scattered contents of the gym bag—she must have just dumped it out on the ground. She bent to retrieve a flashlight, and pointed it at Caudwell’s face.

The woman looked hunted. It was a strange time to panic. But then, she wasn’t wrong to think that this was her last chance to make an impression. Lieutenant Greenhill with a light was as final as a mugshot. But more than fear, it was a kind of seeking terror, seeking some sign and desperate not to find it: a hypochondriac caged with the sick. Aha. She was afraid she would make peace.

“—and _you_ , poor dupe, you’re fucking that traitor, you spread for him—”

Schonkopf clamped a hand on the woman’s mouth and hefted her baton. Lieutenant Greenhill grabbed his arm, scrabbling with short nails.

“My father was a traitor,” she said. “Your brother was a traitor. Admiral Yang is not a traitor.” She hesitated, and pity crept into her voice. "Neither am I."

Schonkopf gave in and let Caudwell wrench his other hand away. He really didn't feel well. “And when he loses?” the woman said, spitting. “When he surrenders and pisses himself and the Imperials blow his head off?”

“Then the Alliance will have betrayed him,” Lieutenant Greenhill said.

The distant sound of sirens crashed over some barrier, and became the air and the concrete he knelt on. He breathed sirens, thought sirens, held sirens down thrashing, until a door slammed open.

*

The police let them go after a pretty abject round of questioning. Advantages of shipping out the next day. Although, on the whole, he was glad Machungo had missed the excitement.

It was a long walk from the station back to base, and on the way he was filled with an unjust sense of wellbeing—it seemed to mock pain, and his weakness to pain. On the other hand, he had to walk rather slowly to keep his feet in order. Lieutenant Greenhill was slower. “I could have killed that woman,” she muttered, rubbing at her lips. “Even after you had her restrained, I wanted to hurt her. Honestly, it frightens me that I can get this angry. I used to be something of a bully, but I thought I’d changed.”

“Is that so?” said Schonkopf, trying not to let any recollection of tormenting little Alliance children color his voice.

“I don’t seem like the type, right?”

He chose to skip the question. “I wouldn’t have thought you would need to worry about changing, anyway. You’re a skillful young woman, but even so, you’re young. You have time to improve your philosophy. —It’s not as if Julian is here to learn from your bad example.”

Lieutenant Greenhill stopped just behind him, outside the shaped light from a streetlamp; around her head, her brown hair smoldered, the badge of rank on her collar gleamed, as did the pin in her hat, and her face was lost. “Time? Is time really enough?” she said. “Yes, I suppose it will have to be. Thank you for saying so.”

She might have been joking. She had a sense of humor that marched out of step with others’, maybe suited to a more feminine audience, or meant for just her father and herself. It was one reason she and Yang got along. Not that they shared a rhythm, but that they were both so used to being misread. She was crying, and she wiped her face roughly on her sleeve. Most of her makeup had surely worn off in the course of the night—since Yang hadn’t joined them, she would have had no reason to refresh it—but still, his cheeks tingled in sympathy, having had to scrub away a lipstick-smear or so himself. Either that, or she had made him blush.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Lieutenant Greenhill said after a substantial pause, dabbing more delicately with the tail of her uniform scarf. She stepped forward from the light of the lamppost and into the light of the street. “I’m grateful for your help. We should go when the light changes, we’ve missed two walk signals.”

“No, it’s I who had better apologize,” Schonkopf said, with a bow. “You rescued me very gallantly. I brought evil harassment to your door on a night when we should be making the most of life.”

There was a long silence. The light changed. They crossed. “I’m sorry again,” Frederica said in the shadow of a warehouse, “but I’m afraid I’m not free to make the most of life with you, General—”

Damn his outstanding charisma. “Not that,” he said, “not like that,” and bit his knuckle to keep down dizzy laughter. She was better at graceful deflections than Yang, who so loved to give in. “I hope you don’t believe such a thing of me. Only a boor would proposition a woman after her life was threatened in an alley.”

“I think we were the ones doing the threatening.” Out of the corner of his eye he caught her smile, civil and with a note of curiosity that soon transformed to something still more confident. It made him feel exposed. He had surprised her; what had he given away? Lacking an alternative, he smiled back, and she reached out and worked her arm through his.

She was shaking. It had been his mistake to imagine that she saw him when she looked at him. What did she see? The woman’s face? Her father’s face with a hole in its forehead? Yang’s white face, when the news broke?

“Do you believe the admiral will win this war?”

“Yes," Schonkopf admitted. “I’ve never doubted it.”


End file.
